


A Day in the Unlife

by mogwai_do



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 02:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14010414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: Just a snapshot of a bad day in the (un)life of Nick Knight.





	A Day in the Unlife

He was shaking. Violently. Then just as suddenly as it had begun it was over; the calm that enveloped him, the unnatural stillness of his form, betraying the fact that the battle still raged. He was hungry. Starving. He felt sick to his stomach. He was burning up, but he was chilled. The shaking started again. Every muscle fighting to be still. A deep breath. Another. Shaking became trembling became weariness and the loft was still once more.

Darkness reigned in the cold concrete building he called home, while outside the hot summer sun blazed. Almost. He had almost chosen to make a fiery end of it rather than face the thought of another night's existence. But he hadn't. Life could be as terrifying and terrible as anything, but it was better than the alternative. At least while life continued there was the hope of a hope that it could get better. He was in no doubt that death would not be so charitable, not for him anyway.

For the first time in the last, eternal hour he began to take note of his surroundings. The loft was as familiar as it should be after so many years of residence, but his normal fastidiousness was no longer in evidence. Jacket and gun lying across the couch where they had been thrown; a half empty bottle and a spilled glass lay on the table. Shattered glass on the floor by the sink where another bottle had dropped from quaking hands, the thick red liquid it had contained, forming a slowly spreading pool. Its scent both enticed and sickened him.

It hadn't taken much really this time around, a lapse in concentration at a bloody crime scene, a moment's visibility for the vampire. He'd struggled to keep his grip through all the procedures and protocols. He'd almost slipped again on the ride home, but had managed to stay balanced on the knife-edge of control. Knife-edge was a bit of a misnomer really, crumbling cliff edge would be closer. He could try to keep his precarious balance and hope the ground would not give way beneath him, or he could just close his eyes and let go, take that final step. The temptation was there certainly, which was why the remote lay now in pieces by the far wall.

But to really let go would be to fail; not just in his responsibility to Natalie and other mortals to protect them from himself, but to LaCroix and his vampiric family. His own problems were of no concern to him, a distant second to the burden of responsibilities he bore in the name of love. On opposite sides of the moral battle ground, they may be, but they were one in their desire to see him live, however that may be. So for now he would live, and he would cope, and he would put this day behind him, lock it in the vaults of his long memory until such a time as he could remember that crumbling cliff edge without fear.

Slowly, almost painfully, he picked himself up off the cold floor, for the time being ignoring the state of the room. A blank canvas sat waiting, as it had done for the past few months, waiting for the inspiration that had eluded him for so long. He didn't bother to change clothes, he hadn't the energy to care for externals right now, not with the internal demanding such attention. He would take his heart and his soul and he would paint them. Maybe if he could see them, he would be able to make sense of their conflict. Maybe just transferring them from himself to the canvas would give him the space he needed to think, a new perspective.

Deep, dark red flowed from the brush, staining the otherwise pure white canvas. He could do this. By himself, for himself, he had to. It wasn't that bad. He didn't need anyone's help, he was more than capable of dealing with the price of his independence. He had fought and suffered for it, he wasn't about to give it up for just some minor difficulty. He could and would do this alone. He had to. The painting took shape.

**********

LaCroix studied the finished piece, sipping thoughtfully at his glass. Foolish child. Foolish, misguided, brave Nicholas. Independence was a myth, it had always been unattainable no matter how much one tried for it. A lesson he himself had learned over 1,000 years previously, a lesson Nicholas seemed unable to accept, at least not when it had been his father doing the teaching.

One day he would learn, the current crisis was over, but it wouldn't be the last. One day the lesson would be inescapable, he only hoped his son would recover from that uncomfortable truth when the time came. Carefully, he covered the canvas again and moved to the fireplace to await his son's return.


End file.
